That Kid's Sherlock Fic Dump
by That Kid With the Long Coat
Summary: So basically a place for drabbles, or stories I don't know what to do with, whether because they're unfinished, or I'm uninspired at the moment. Either way, feel free to comment on any and all that you see! Totally non-obligatory, though. Enjoy! (Rating may vary depending on future content. Characters may or may not be added depending on future content as well.)
1. The Five Stages

_**Rating:** K+ (-ish)_

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**The Five Stages**

_Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance._

The five stages of grief, as coined by Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, his therapist told him on his second visit. He would get there. It would just take a little while.

The only problem with that was that John had already been through all five stages. And really, all things considered, it hadn't taken all that long.

Of course, the denial had been first. That came when Sherlock fell, when he hit the pavement, when John swore he could have sworn he heard the sickening crunch of bones shattering and organs bruising and bleeding.

Next had come the bargaining. That had taken place with Lestrade, on the way to the hospital. Sherlock had long been pronounced dead. There was nothing that could be done.

They hadn't been able to see him - Molly was adamant about that. Said it was bad enough for her, she didn't want to think about how John would handle it.

That was about the time the anger set in. As soon as he got back to 221 B, with Sherlock's things everywhere but no Sherlock, the realisation that there would never be Sherlock, John snapped. He shouted, he shrieked, he cursed through the red-hot tears. He cursed everything and everyone he had ever known. Every decision that had led him to that very spot. Cursed Mike for introducing them, cursed Sally for telling him to turn and run the other way, cursed himself for not listening. He cursed the flat for being so damn-near perfect and quirky, cursed Moriarty for all that he did. Most of all, he cursed Sherlock. How dare he! How dare he do that to him! Was he even thinking about how John would cope? The selfish bastard!

That was when Mrs Hudson lost a tenant and a loved one, but gained another (larger) hole in her wall.

After he had cooled, rolling his knuckles as he inhaled the scent of Sherlock and gunpowder, the depression took over him like a dark wave. He didn't budge from his chair until the funeral (and vowed never to go back). He was well on the road to acceptance. Until he clapped eyes on the plain black box that held his friend's corpse. A closed casket.

Then, something strange happened.

Denial, all over again. The next thing he knew, he was bargaining again.

And, as he walked away from Sherlock's grave, the depression reared it's cold ugly head.

But the anger, well. The anger waited, keeping acceptance at bay. Well, at least until three years later, when Sherlock showed up on his doorstep.

Then both came with a startling clarity.

Oh, Sherlock was dead all right.

Or at least on the verge of.


	2. (No Title As of Yet)

_Rating: K+ or T. Not sure, exactly. Or maybe I'm paranoid…_

_Author's note: I'm going to clarify a little bit. This is a fic dump, as in random _separate_ little drabbles will be posted as separate chapters. If I decide to make a story out of one, it will be published and elaborated on in a different story... Just y'know, sayin'. Just in case... Was that confusing or crystal clear? IDEK_

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**(No Title as of Yet. Suggestions Welcome)**

"I'm gonna kill him," John hissed, voice dangerously low, and dripping venom. Greg watched as he paced around the DI's office like a trapped animal, eyes ablaze. His fists clenched and unclenched behind his back. Greg noticed with a jolt that John's tremors and limp were both gone.

Lestrade was a little more than concerned. "Kill who?" he asked, brow furrowing.

"Sherlock, obviously," John replied irritably, as if Greg had asked if two plus two really did equal four.

Greg was certain his friend had snapped. "John, Sherlock's dead."

"Not yet, but he will be," came the prompt reply.

A sigh. "No John." John had this distracted, far away look in his eyes, like he wasn't really hearing a word Greg was saying. "He's dead. He has been for three years."

John stopped and turned to face the DI. His eyes were suddenly clear and bright and filled with an intense rage.

"Exactly," he said, heading for the door. The blond clenched his teeth with resolve. "That's what I'm going to kill him for."


	3. Finding Someone to Spend Your Life With

_Rating: K+ or T, depending_

_Author's Note: This was one of my prompts in creative writing. Of course, I had to make it Johnlock. Enjoy._

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**Finding Someone to Spend Your Life With**

It's a trying thing, living with someone. Especially if that someone specialises in insults, has the sharpest wit around, has the emotional capacity of a spoon, and (most importantly) explodes everyday appliances on a regular basis.

John, however, having cultivated a saint-like patience over the past year or so, only found these _quirks _mildly irritating, and handled them with a strained smile. Most days.

Others, like whenever he managed by some miracle to get a girlfriend, were more than "mildly irritating" or "a bit not good". It seemed any time Sherlock sniffed a woman anywhere near a romantic relationship with John, everything went downhill. Along with John's tolerance of his friend.

More often than not, roughly a week later, she would dump him on his arse and storm off, saying something like, "Sherlock's a lucky man" or, "Why didn't you tell me you have a boyfriend?"

John was not amused.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was tickled pink, grinning like a loon when John told him, or when he deduced it, and especially when he was a witness.

"Good riddance," he would say in a very un-Sherlock-like manner, and return to what he was doing. And, on some occasions, Sherlock would invite John to go to a crime scene, or terrorize the blokes at Scotland Yard. On more occasions, the words "dangerous" and "murder" would coincide.

John, without fail, no matter how raving mad or upset he was over another ruined relationship, would oblige. "Oh God yes," was the common form of acceptance.

Normally, as soon as Sherlock gave him that ecstatic smile, the one that said, "I'd be lost without my blogger," it would hit him.

_I'm going to spend the rest of my life with this high-functioning sociopath. _


	4. Surprise

_Rating: T for mild language_

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**Surprise**

"Sherlock!"

"What!"

"You need to close your eyes!" John insisted, lips pursing.

Sherlock simply couldn't see the point. He hated surprises. "For what reason?"

"Because I told you to, you twat."

Sherlock sighed; he had him there. Regardless, he used his usual retort. "And when do I ever listen to anything you say?"

John could come up with a few occasions, actually several, but he decided that a look would suffice in this instant.

Another sigh. Sherlock closed his eyes in submission with a pout, crossing his arms. John allowed himself a grin before he stepped forward until he was practically nose to nose with his friend. Well, nose to shoulder. He could see Sherlock frown and his ears twitch. He swayed back and forth on his heels and the balls of his feet impatiently, waiting.

Stretching on his tiptoes, John still needed to tilt down Sherlock's chin with his thumb and forefinger before his goal could be met.

"No peeking," John breathed against Sherlock's lips before he went in for the kill.

Sherlock tried, he did, but he couldn't quite help himself.


End file.
